


Death Do Us Part

by I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own



Series: Evil Author Day 2021 [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ecthelion lives at Gondolin, Evil Author Day, No Beta we die like Thranduil and Glorfindel, Thran dies in Doriath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:00:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29461665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own
Summary: A change of fate, a prince dies in Doriath, and a warrior lives at Gondolin.
Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain & Glorfindel, Galion & Thranduil (Tolkien), Galion (Tolkien)/Ecthelion of the Fountain, Glorfindel & Thranduil (Tolkien)
Series: Evil Author Day 2021 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2163834
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Death Do Us Part

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Galion recites is Dirge Without Music by Edna St. Vincent.
> 
> I bought Imladris' creation forward.

_F.A 506 – Menegroth, Doriath_

It was an agreement they’d had since they were children, since they first learned what death was, even though it surely could not touch them behind Melian’s Girdle. Surely not. So, they’d agreed, wrists clasped, their eyes locked and the words tumbling out of their lips so certain and true.

“Together or not at all.”

That was their agreement, their promise, sworn before all _but_ the Gods.

It’s not how things go down.

He spends the fight constantly checking on Galion. He knows already that he shouldn’t, but he’s already lost Dior and Nimloth and he can’t lose Galion, too, he can’t. Especially as he doesn’t know if his father still lives, if his niece and his nephews still live, if his cousins still live. If he can save even one of them, he’ll do it.

Curufin notices his distraction and determines to use it against him, swapping opponents with another Fëanorian who had been fighting Galion. Thranduil deals them a killing blow easily, his attention immediately turning back to Galion in time to see Curufin’s sword moving for what would be a deathly blow, but he’s faster. Launching himself forward to take the strike, the sword cutting through his flesh like butter.

“I win.” Curufin hisses, but Thranduil laughs, blood bubbling up his throat.

“Checkmate.” Thranduil mutters, jerking his hand where his sword is lodged in Curufin’s gut. He laughs again as Curufin stumbles backwards in horrified shock, yanking the sword out in the process. Thranduil gasps for breath and coughs up blood almost at the same exact time and chokes as a result, his legs buckling as he collapses to the ground, he feels a familiar set of arms catch his upper body just before it can impact the stone, his head resting in a familiar lap. “G’lion.” He slurs, his vision becoming blurry, everything becoming numb.

“Thranduil! Hey, no, no, Thranduil! We swore!” Galion’s screaming, but his words mean little and less to Thranduil as his mind starts to shut down, bit by bit. “Together or not at all. Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. We swore. Thranduil!”

“G’lion.” He manages to say, before everything fades away.

* * *

_F.A 510 – Gondolin, Echoriad_

Ecthelion struggles out of the fountain, his whole body aching even as his chest burns as he spits out the water he’d swallowed and inhales the too smoky, too dusty air. He pulls his sopping hair out of his face as he stumbles away from the fountain. He is certain that Gothmog will not crawl out of it again. He takes a few moments to gather his strength before he stumbles away from the King’s Square, the city is wholly fallen now.

He struggles along Idril’s Secret Way and out onto the Cirith Thoronath where he finds the House of the Golden Flower gathered around a cairn, where little yellow flowers are sprouting in the dirt. There is a shocked cry that sounds when the survivors see him, his arms wrapped tightly around his middle as he struggles to push onwards and join them.

“Who?” he asks, his eyes on the cairn, even as he’s sure he knows the answer, for the House is gathered but their Lord is absent.

“Lord Glorfindel fell in battle slaying a balrog and defending us all.” Yes, Ecthelion had been afraid something like that would be the answer. He startles a little as a familiar sword is held out to him. He grinds his teeth as he reaches out with a trembling hand to take the sword, nodding his thanks to the elf who passes it to him.

“We shall sing songs of his valour until the breaking of the world.” Ecthelion determines, his eyes stinging. He has lost much on this day, even so, the bravery exhibited today deserves to be remembered.

* * *

_F.A 506 – Menegroth, Doriath_

Galion isn’t sure how long he sits there, drenched in Thranduil’s blood, cradling his friend, his brother against his chest and sobbing, pleading for him to come back. The Fëanorian’s fled with the deaths of their leaders, Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir. Galion just wishes such hadn’t come at the expense of Dior, Thranduil, and Nimloth.

His throat is raw, his heart crushed, and his eyes swollen when he finally finds the courage to rest Thranduil’s body on the ground and get to his feet. He knows he should leave, should find any other survivors and flee, but he can’t just leave his friends like this, can’t leave his king and his queen and his prince this way. First, he collects their swords, wipes the blood from them and finds their sheathes. Thranduil’s swords he adds to his belt, beside his own sword. Nimloth and Dior’s he straps to his back, he’s not entirely sure why, but he feels like he cannot simply leave them, so he doesn’t.

Next, he carries Dior out into the forest, lays him down within the thick roots of one of the oldest trees in the forest. He goes back to retrieve Nimloth and places her down beside her husband. His hand shaking as he rests it against the tree and sings a song of lament. He closes his eyes as the roots of the tree shift and move and drag his king and his queen down into the earth beneath the tree. He feels the tree’s sadness, repeated over and over again by every single tree in the forest. He doesn’t know why it gives him the strength to pull away and keep on, but it does.

He goes back for Thranduil, has to resist the urge to collapse to his knees and cradle his friend to him again. He already knows such will just waste time and prolong this horrible, suffocating, sorrow that has settled upon him. The trek back out into the forest is a hard one, a few times his legs threaten to buckle as his grief grows too great to carry on top of Thranduil’s dead weight. Still, he pushes through, his breathes little more than gasping sobs, but he pushes on. Galion takes Thranduil out to the tree where they’d buried Thingol just three years prior. He rests Thranduil down within the crawling, tangling roots and presses his hand against the ancient trunk.

He doesn’t know why the poem comes to him then, one that Beren had recited when he’d been teaching them all to speak the tongues of men. Still, the poem comes to him and his voice trembles as he speaks it, one last time. The last of them all, Beren, Lûthien, Nimloth, Dior, Thranduil. He’s the last one left.

_“I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.  
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:  
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned  
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned._

_Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.  
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.  
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,  
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost._

_The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—  
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled  
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.  
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world._

_Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave  
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;  
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.  
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.”_

As he recites, the roots of the tree shift and move and drag Thranduil down into the deep. He knows they’ll settle him with Thingol. Thingol’s soul is no longer here, as Thranduil is no longer, but something settles in him at the idea that Thingol may watch over Thranduil again, as he did in life. Even if now, it’s only their bodies.

There is one moment, where Thranduil’s hand is the only part of him that’s still visible above the earth and Galion dives for it, suddenly, desperately wanting to haul Thranduil out of the earth and bring him back, but he’s not fast enough and ends up only scrambling in the dirt. He sobs, shoulders slumping as he kneels in the dirt and has to stop himself from trying to dig Thranduil out. Thranduil is gone, lost to him. Even if he dug the body out, he’d still be down a friend.

It’s as he’s considering the merits of just sitting here and wasting away that he hears movement elsewhere in the forest and he turns. His hand moving for one of the swords on his belt even as he questions whether it wouldn’t be better to just let death take him, as it should have, him instead of Thranduil. But it is not death that comes in search for him, he finds, it’s _life._ Two, precious little elflings running out of the trees with tears streaming down their faces as they scream for him, their clothes ripped and torn, and their little faces grazed.

Galion doesn’t even have to think as he turns and opens his arms to them, pulling them tight against his sides. He’s never been particularly superstitious. The Valar, Eru, they all exist, he knows, but he’s never put much stock in them. But this? Eluréd and Elurín surviving, when so, so many others haven’t, that’s a sign, if ever he saw one. How can he stay here and waste away when there are two little boys who need him? When he is the last person they have in this wide world?

“Come along, boys. We should- we must leave this place.” He murmurs to them, as he ushers them up on their feet. He knows now why he needed Nimloth and Dior’s swords. One day, their sons will be old enough to wield them.

* * *

_F.A 510 – Gondolin, Echoriad_

Ecthelion doesn’t remember falling to his knees, but he must have at some point, because suddenly he’s being hauled up onto his feet by Tuor. He groans, pressing a hand to his head as the world seems to swirl around him.

“You survived.” He mutters to the man before him, Tuor smirks and nods his head.

“Yes, so did you.” Tuor answers, his hand gentle where it’s holding Ecthelion’s wrist, pulling him away from the cairn. Ecthelion wants to argue, wants to go back down on his knees and waste away here with Glorfindel. “Eärendil will be happy to see you. He’s been asking for you.” Tuor says and just like that, Ecthelion understands why he pulled himself out of the fountain, why he struggled away from Gondolin even though his head felt like it was splitting open, and his chest felt like it was being crushed. Why even now, he’s letting Tuor pull him away when Glorfindel isn’t following along after them.

“I’m afraid that I’m not the best of company at the moment.” He says, even though he doesn’t resist as Tuor leads him through the survivors.

“I don’t think he’ll care, to be perfectly honest with you.” Tuor answers, a tired smile on his face. “We thought you were dead, and we told him so when he asked after you. He wept for you, quite bitterly, and declared he had no wish to ever see Gondolin again.”

“Ah, wonder who he gets those dramatics from.” Ecthelion mutters, glancing back towards the cairn with its golden flowers. “Well, Glorfindel will be pleased.” He mutters, smiling when Tuor laughs.

“Well, his influence paid off.” Tuor murmurs, just as there’s an excited cry, and Ecthelion tenses up at the little body that comes rushing towards him, but the impact never comes as Tuor snags his arms around the seven-year-old half-elf and holds on. “Lord Ecthelion is injured, ion nin. Be gentle.” Tuor cautions, but even that doesn’t dim the light in Eärendil’s eyes as the boy nods enthusiastically at his father and is released.

“They said you were dead, Lord ‘Thelion!” Eärendil exclaims, stepping forward to wrap his little arms around Ecthelion’s middle, Ecthelion smiles and gingerly rests his hand over the boy’s head.

“Rumours of my demise were greatly exaggerated.” Ecthelion promises, as the boy looks up at him with shining eyes. “Perhaps, someday, I will tell you about the great battle I fought against the Lord of Balrogs. But, come, I believe your atar wants us all to move on.” Ecthelion says, letting his hand fall to Eärendil’s back as he ushers the boy forwards. “Maybe you can show me how much better your singing has gotten, hmm?”

“Alright!” Eärendil declares, his face lighting up in a smile as he sucks in a breath and starts singing softly. Ecthelion shares a look with Tuor and he does not look back at cairn a single time more.

* * *

_S.A 805 – Tol Eress_ _ëa, Alqualond_ _ë_

Thranduil hates Aman. It’s not even that he dislikes the people here, he just _hates being here_. Uncle Olwë, he supposes is alright. He’s nothing like Uncle Thingol or Uncle Elmo, or even Thranduil’s own father, but he’s… nice enough. His cousin, Finarfin, is alright, too. Both of them curious about Artanis, he’s reluctant to admit that it had taken him far too long to realize they were asking of the Lady Galadriel, his cousin who he frequently forgot was King Olwë’s granddaughter. Of Lady Galadriel he had no news, for she had passed across the Blue Mountains long before even the fall of Nargothrond and only her husband, Lord Celeborn knew of her self-appointed task beyond the mountains.

He had, however, been happy to tell them stories of Lúthien and Beren, Dior and Nimloth, even his nieces and nephews. He struggles to talk of Galion and his father, though, when he’s asked. No one will tell him if he was successful in saving Galion and he can only assume his father has survived because Olwë seems certain of it. Even Lady Melian won’t tell him what’s happening in Middle-earth. He’s reduced to gaining information from those who return from Ennor, but most have no information they are willing to part with. He doesn’t understand what was so traumatic about Middle-earth that they refuse to discuss it, and he _died_ there.

It’s when Lord Glorfindel is rebodied that Thranduil gets his answer, sitting dejectedly on the beach, staring out at the water crashing against the shore, and wishing he was back in Middle-earth. 

“You’re a hard person to track down.” An unfamiliar voice calls, he turns to find an unfamiliar elf walking towards him, they seem to glow with the light of the sun. Thranduil casts his mind through the elves he’s heard of who glow such as this, but he’s met all those of consequence, least, those this side of the sea. Besides, he now glows such, too, though he knows his light is not that of the trees. Seems, when he was rebodied, he was given something a little extra.

“Surely, if I wanted to be tracked down, I wouldn’t have made it so difficult to accomplish.” Thranduil answers, turning his attention back towards the water, and he _doesn’t_ scowl when the elf sits down beside him. “What do you want? And who are you?”

“Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin.” The elf answers, Thranduil pauses, sucking in a breath, before he turns, his eyes raking over the elf until he gives a nod and looks away again, willing to believe the claim.

“What foolishness landed you back this side of the sea?” Thranduil queries, because he knows from the tales of Glorfindel and Ecthelion that neither would sail willingly, not while there was still anything of worth to be completed in Middle-earth.

“Slew a balrog. He slew me in turn.” Glorfindel answers with a dejected little shrug of his shoulders, Thranduil snorts.

“What possessed you to be that reckless?”

“Morgoth attacked Gondolin with dragons and balrogs.” Glorfindel admits, his voice taking on the sharp, yet sad quality that Thranduil’s gets when he talks of the Kinslaying at Menegroth.

“Ah. Yes, that would do it, wouldn’t it?” he asks, because he knows exactly what he’d done in defence of his own home, of those he loves. “You seem willing to talk about Middle-earth. Do you know anything of the survivors of the Second Kinslaying?”

“Your father lives, along with your friend, Galion, I think was his name?” Glorfindel queries, Thranduil lets go of a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding in. “There was a debate in Turgon’s court.” Glorfindel admits, Thranduil turns to him with a frown and his cocked to the side. “Galion, apparently, showed up in Sirion with a set of dark-haired twins, assumption is they’re the Princes of Menegroth, but _everyone_ swears _those_ twins perished in the forest.”

“What about Elwing?”

“Lord Celeborn carried her to safety, at least… that’s the information we have- _had_.” Glorfindel corrects, turning his gaze towards the water, Thranduil follows suit. “That was… years ago now, though, of course. But, I understand the first rule of Aman is that we don’t talk about Ennor, so…”

“How could you possibly know of Fight Club?” Thranduil queries, with a laugh, remembering the tale he’d learned from Beren, once, before Dior had been born.

“I’m a very travelled elf, I’ll have you know.” Glorfindel answers, a grin on his face. “Plus, Tuor sometimes wanted to learn of his parents’ history, so we occasionally spent time among the humans learning along with him.”

“The furthest I ever went was Tol Galen, and even that was only for Lúthien and Beren.” Thranduil admits, absently dragging his fingers through the sand around them. “I’m going to go mad if they keep me locked up, here. Why give me a new body just to kill me with boredom?”

“I hear there is a Quest for us. Nothing more than rumours at the moment, you understand? But, rumour has it, they’ll be sending us back to Ennor at some undetermined point.” Glorfindel tells him, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper, but Thranduil doesn’t have to strain to hear it at all.

“Oh.” He murmurs, his eyebrows raising. “Well, I’ve always been patient.” He says, a mischievous smile pulling at his lips. “I suppose I can wait.”

* * *

_F.A 506-507 – Beleriand_

Galion and the twins encounter other refuges a few days out of Doriath. They all ask where Thranduil is knowing, as all of Doriath knew, that the pair of them were inseparable. Galion doesn’t know why they feel the need to ask, the fact that he’s here and Thranduil isn’t should honestly be all the information they should need to figure out the answer. Similarly, the fact that he’s here with the twins and the king and queen aren’t, should be enough information, there, too.

He doesn’t answer their questions. There are only two people who deserve to hear the words he has to say, and he doesn’t know if either survived. He figures he won’t know until they reach Sirion. So, they keep moving. Truthfully, aside from speaking with the boys, Galion doesn’t talk, wonders if he’s forgotten how. He hasn’t, of course, because he talks to the boys just fine, but the moment he tries to talk to anyone else, he clams up, his mouth slams shut and refuses to open again, so he doesn’t even try anymore.

He doesn’t know who decided to start the rumour that Eluréd and Elurín perished in the forest, and the twins with Galion are just other orphans, just another pair of refugees, but he’s grateful for it. Just as he’s grateful that the others start calling the children by the names he gave them. Someday, when it’s safer, when they’re older, they can reclaim their names again, if that is their wish.

When they arrive in Sirion, Oropher and Celeborn meet them at the gate. He knows the moment Oropher works out that Thranduil is not coming, that Thranduil is never going to come. The sound that leaves Oropher’s throat is like a spear direct through Galion’s heart. His breath stutters, his eyes burning with tears as he remembers seeing Thranduil fall, remembers the way his formidable strength had ebbed away so, so _swiftly,_ so suddenly. Remembers the confused, slurred quality of Thranduil’s voice uttering his name, his final words. Remembers the hand sinking beneath the earth, even as he reached for it.

“I’m so, so sorry.” He stammers, the words getting choked in his throat, he can’t remember how to breathe. “So sorry.” He flinches when a set of strong hands reach out and grab him, before he’s being crushed against a solid chest. He struggles to breathe in, they both do, each of them gasping for air, despite the keening wail they can’t seem to stop. He doesn’t know when they ended up on the ground and he doesn’t care. “It’s my fault. I’m so, so sorry.”

“How?” the question is barely anything more than a puff of air against his neck, but Galion hears anyway, struggling to find the breath, the voice to speak.

“He-he-he saved me.” Galion confesses, a wounded sound in his throat as he remembers the fear he’d felt thinking he was going to die, only for that fear to be replaced by stark _terror_ at the knowledge that Thranduil _really_ _was_ going to die. “Curufin.” He mumbles, feels the way Oropher tenses up and hurries to continue. “They-they slew each other and-and-and I buried him,” Galion admits, his voice shaking, choked as he says “wi-with Thingol.”

“Thank you.”

“But-“

“You were with him at the end.” Oropher says, his voice sincere, even as it’s devastated, broken, _dead_. “You did what I couldn’t.”

“If he hadn’t saved me-“

“Then maybe neither of you would have made it out.” Celeborn comments, as his hands fall on Galion’s shoulders, a comforting weight. “You know how swiftly grief turns to rage, turns to recklessness. His last act was one of love and great selflessness. Don’t diminish it with guilt and self-recrimination.” The words are barely out of Celeborn’s mouth before Galion’s breaking apart again, the dam bursting, with no hope of putting it back together, least not at the moment.

“I miss him. I keep looking for him and he’s never there and it’s my fault.” He mumbles, before the rest of his words become incomprehensible babbling, interspersed with hysteric laughter, and broken sobbing.

* * *

_F.A 510-511 Beleriand_

The journey is long and hard and the further they get from Gondolin, from Glorfindel, the harder it is for Ecthelion to keep walking, to keep putting one foot in front of the other and letting himself be taken even further away from his friend, his brother. Eärendil and his constant, exuberant presence helps, the boy always asking questions, begging for songs, or stories, or just wanting to know what particular animals or plants are.

At first, Ecthelion wants to know why the boy is spending so much time with him rather than his parents, but the devastation written all over Idril’s face is answer enough, of course it is. Her father is gone. All of them on this trek have lost someone, lost _something._ Some of them are leaving the only homes they’ve ever known. Some of them are leaving behind the only place that ever really felt like home. Some of them are leaving behind bodies that they didn’t have the time to bury. Ecthelion’s lucky in that regard, Glorfindel has a grave. Ecthelion knows exactly where to go if he wants to brood.

Not that he thinks he’ll ever be up to making this journey in reverse. Not now.

In any case, that journey is long, but they finally make it to Sirion, once a small Port City, now the only Elven Stronghold still standing in Beleriand, unless one counts the Isle of Balar. At the gates stands an elf who looks so alike to King Thingol and King Olwë that he can only be the youngest brother, Vinimo, though he goes by Oropher, now, if the information they’d had in Gondolin was correct. With him stands Lord Celeborn, the Sindarin Prince who managed to charm Princess Galadriel, he’d been the talk of Gondolin _and_ Nargothrond at one time for that alone.

There is one other elf with them, Ecthelion assumes this is Galion, the heart-brother for the fallen Prince Thranduil, and the elf who is rumoured to be raising the twins who are _not,_ ~~but totally are~~ Princes Eluréd and Elurín. Not that Ecthelion can blame them for trying to hide the little princes. He’d be trying to hide Eärendil, too, if Tuor and Idril agreed. But they don’t see the danger posed to the boy now that Gil-Galad has taken the throne. Although, he’s not sure you can really be ‘king’ when your entire kingdom is various groups of traumatized refugees all living in camps of some form or another. Still, he supposes having people to be king of is better than having no people at all.

His attention is drawn away from the three Sindarin elves when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He sucks in a breath to call Eärendil back to him when he sees the little elleth standing with him. He stays quiet, watching the children introduce themselves to each other with shy smiles and sparkling eyes and Ecthelion considers that once again the blood lines will cross, since he’s relatively certain this little girl is none other than Princess Elwing.

He wishes Glorfindel were here, his friend would get such a kick out of seeing this.

* * *

_F.A 525 – Sirion, Bay of Balar_

The wedding is beautiful. Elwing sparkles like a little star, the Silmaril shining on her brow. Eärendil wears a smile that hasn’t dropped in hours. Idril and Tuor smile so fondly at the pair of them that Ecthelion thinks it might actually make his heart turn to goo. Lord Celeborn and Prince Oropher smile, too, but their smiles are so bitter-sweet Ecthelion thinks he can taste it on his tongue. Galion lingers at the back, with the twins who aren’t ~~but definitely are~~ Elwing’s brothers, the boys are looking at Elwing with shining eyes and disbelieving smiles, and Galion looks like he’s been stabbed through the heart.

Ecthelion wonders if that’s memories, remembering other people, or if it’s just the lingering grief, the wish that Prince Thranduil was there with him to see this. All the Lords and Ladies of the Valar know that Ecthelion still looks for Glorfindel and does a double take to find him missing, until he remembers that cairn with its yellow flowers. Either way, Ecthelion can understand why even though it is a happy day, some smiles are still edged in sadness, grief, and rage.

* * *

_F.A 532 – Sirion, Bay of Balar_

Galion laughs at the excited little squealing noises that are escaping Ecthelion’s mouth. He knows the famed Balrogslayer will deny them until the end of the world, but those high-pitched noises are _squeals_ and Galion will not be convinced otherwise.

“Yes, they’re very adorable, they look just like their uncles, and their grandfather did when they were born.” Galion says, cooing gently at the baby in his arms. “What did you say this little one’s name was, penneth?” Galion queries, glancing at Elwing, where she’s tucked up in bed, resting against Eärendil, both of them grinning widely.

“Melamdir is the little one you’re holding, Galion. Ecthelion has Melelen.” Eärendil answers, almost vibrating in place with his happiness. Galion smiles at them both and turns his attention back to the babe in his arms, who has acquired a handful of Galion’s hair and is doing his level best to eat it.

“I don’t think my hair is very appetising, little one.” He murmurs, but Melamdir is not at all concerned, gurgling up at him in contentment. “Very well, as my prince wishes.”

* * *

_S.A 1000 – Tol Eress_ _ëa, Alqualond_ _ë_

“Thranduil! Thranduil! Thranduil!” Thranduil sighs heavily and turns in the sand to find Glorfindel rushing towards him, golden hair glinting in the moonlight. “Thranduil! Thranduil!”

“Yes, I heard you the first time!” Thranduil yells, managing to shut the golden-haired elf up for a few moments as the elf skids to a stop in front of him, panting for breath. “I’ve heard you’re not supposed to shoot the messenger, but you look like you might require a mercy killing.”

“Please don’t, I’ve died enough for one lifetime.” Glorfindel mutters, dropping down into the sand in front of him, Thranduil scowls and brushes the sand away that’s blown over him. “Eärendil and Elwing are here!”

“Excuse me?” Thranduil demands, his body tensing up. “Where?”

“Well, not _here,_ here, but every day they arrive in Valinor and every night they travel the stars. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.” Glorfindel says, shining almost as brightly as the stars above them. “Look, look, that’s them!” Glorfindel exclaims, pointing up to the brightest star in the night sky, Gil-Estel, who had risen some time between Thranduil’s death and his being rebodied.

“What?”

“The light? It’s a Silmaril.” Glorfindel explains, as Thranduil can’t seem to take his eyes away from the star, which, sure enough, is moving through the night sky. “Eärendil used the Silmaril as a guide and the Valar placed him in the stars, with Elwing.”

“Why? I mean… why Elwing, too?”

“Oh, oh, oh _, right_! I almost forgot!” Glorfindel practically vibrates in his seat with his excitement. “They _married!_ ” Thranduil stares blankly at Glorfindel as he tries to process that information, the last time he saw Elwing she was _three_ and the oldest Eärendil gets in any of Glorfindel’s stories is the age of seven. They’re just children.

“How-how long have we been here? What-what year is it?” Thranduil asks, his brows furrowing, but Glorfindel’s glow is already dimming along with his smile as he shakes his head, shoulders slumping.

“I don’t know.” The Balrogslayer admits, suddenly dejected. “But, maybe the children will know? If we can find them, tomorrow?”

“Valinor, you said?” Thranduil queries, Glorfindel nods, some of that enthusiasm returning. “Well then, I suppose we should go and talk to an elf about a boat.” Then he considers those words and snorts, rolling his eyes. “Not my Uncle or any of my cousins, for surely they’ll just tell me to build my own.” Glorfindel laughs at the joke, the way Thranduil had intended and he smiles. “Come on!”

* * *

_F.A 538 – Sirion, Bay of Balar_

Elwing is gone. Turned into a bird and flown away. He doesn’t know what’s happened to her twins, but no matter where he looks, he can’t find them. He doesn’t know if that’s because someone got them out or because they’ve been taken or they’re- but he can’t find them. It makes something ache in his chest as he turns his attention back towards finding his own twins and Ecthelion, and Celeborn and Oropher, and anyone else who might possibly have survived this.

If he _ever_ sees another Fëanorion, he’s going to shove his sword so deeply through their chest, they’ll still feel the pain when they’re rebodied.

* * *

_F.A 545 – Refuge of Balar, Isle of Balar_

“Where have you two been?” Galion demands to know, frowning at his sons, who share conspiratorial smiles.

“With Daerada, then something came up and we spent some time on the shore.” Methestel answers, slyly. Galion sighs because such a thing doesn’t mean good things. Oropher doesn’t like King Gil-Galad, which is, honestly, tough since the land they’re currently residing in was Gil-Galad’s first. The twins don’t much care for Gil-Galad either, though Galion couldn’t possibly tell you why. The three of them together can only spell mischief.

“Galion!” he turns at the excited cry and finds Ecthelion rushing towards him, a bright, but cautious smile on his friend’s face. “Galion! The twins! The twins are here!”

“Yes, Ecthelion, that’s fairly obvious-“

“No, no, not your twins!” Ecthelion exclaims, cutting Galion off, though he flicks the twins an apologetic glance. “ _Our_ twins. Eärendil and Elwing’s twins!”

 _“What?”_ Galion’s isn’t the only voice raised in incredulity, but he’s the first one to start moving, Ecthelion laughing as he moves to guide them away.

“Apparently, they’ve been living with Maedhros and Maglor since Sirion. Captives at first, then Gil-Estel rose and the Kinslayers decided to adopt them.”

“Why have they come back?” Galion demands to know, not sure if he feels elated or suspicious or a curious mix of both. The twins are, after all, thirteen, and they’ve been missing since they were six. Who knows what kind of people they have become?

“Apparently, the Kinslayers are smart enough not to drag children into battles with them and you know the war is coming.” Ecthelion answers, shrugging his shoulders. “King Gil-Galad, Prince Oropher, _and_ Lord Celeborn are almost coming to blows over the whole thing.”

“Why?”

“The twins are still young; they need someone to raise them. But they’re the heirs of all three so-called ‘Eldar Bloodlines’ and all three Houses of the Edain. Everyone has a claim on them.” Ecthelion explains, then he smirks back at Galion’s sons and Galion suddenly understands what he’s saying.

“They want _me_ to raise them?”

“ _Us_.” Ecthelion corrects with a shake of his head. “You raised Methestel and Methloth with little hassle, helped raise Elwing, and I helped raise Eärendil. Besides, they don’t exactly have the time for child rearing when there’s a war about to begin.”

“But-but we’ll be part of the war.” Galion points out, his brow furrowed in confusion, especially when Ecthelion shakes his head.

“The Line of Succession _must_ be secured.” Ecthelion tells him, Galion can’t help the hysteric laugh that escapes him.

“We’re _refugees,_ Ecthelion! Morgoth rules _all_ of Beleriand, where would we even go if Balar falls?” he demands to know, but the glint in Ecthelion’s eyes tells him his friend has an idea, whether he’ll share it is another thing altogether.

“Come on!”

* * *

_F.A 548 – Refuge of Balar, Isle of Balar_

“I really and truly thought my days of being the voice of reason ended with Thranduil, but apparently, no.” Galion mutters to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose as his younger set of adoptive twins sits down at the table. Elros looks amused and utterly unbothered, which gives Galion a good idea of who hasn’t been getting into trouble today, compared to Elrond, whose shoulders are slumped in an unhappy sulk, even as his eyes are burning with anger. “Elrond. Why did you think it was appropriate to go around punching people who disagree with you?”

“They said atya and atto were responsible for Morgoth claiming all of Beleriand!” Elrond argues, with all the indignation only a teenager can manage. Galion sighs and shakes his head.

“Setting aside the fact they’re correct, why did you react to that with violence?” Galion asks, watches the betrayal that blooms brightly in the teen’s eyes and shakes his head. “You are _sixteen_ , Elrond. What could you possibly know of what your other adoptive fathers have gotten up to before your abduction?”

“But they would _never_ work with Morgoth! They’re off fighting him!!”

“You don’t have to work _with_ someone to aid them in succeeding at their goals, Elrond.” Galion explains, wondering when Ecthelion will be back from the barracks, and regretting not agreeing to join him in training the next batch of soldiers. “In your time amongst the Fëanorians did you learn of the Union of Maedhros?”

“The Nirnaeth Arnoediad.” Elros chirps, nodding his head. “Atto and atya wouldn’t talk about it much, but we read stories.”

“Right. You know that King Orodreth, King Thingol, and many others refused to join the Union of Maedhros?”

“Because they were cowards!” Elrond grumbles, Galion sighs and doesn’t miss the way Elrond flinches at that. Galion rubs tiredly at his eyes as he considers how to explain to his sons why their other set of adoptive parents are ‘problematic’.

“Celegorm and Curufin conspired to overthrow Orodreth and claim Nargothrond for themselves.”

“Oh.” Elrond murmurs, his eyes downcast as he slumps in his seat once again, Elros frowns.

“That wasn’t in the books.”

“No, I doubt it was, in any case. The people of Nargothrond weren’t going to have it and Orodreth even less, the brothers were ousted. But due to their actions, when the Noldor came seeking alliance, Orodreth refused for the House of Fëanor had, once again, proven themselves to be untrustworthy.”

“Again?”

“Did you not learn of the First Kinslaying and the burning of the ships that followed?” Galion queries, sees the boys nod solemnly in understanding. “Fëanor promised to send the ships back and he burnt them instead.”

“But what about King Thingol?”

“While in Nargothrond, Celegorm and Curufin met the Princess Lúthien, who was in pursuit of her beloved, Beren. Celegorm decided that, because only her beauty could ever be a match to his own, she would be his wife and he cared not what she or her father had to say on the matter.”

 _“What?!”_ the boys exclaim together; Galion hums and nods his head.

“Yes, exactly and I’m glad you’re as horrified by that as we all were.” Galion tells them, noting the disgusted looks on their faces, so clearly six-seven years growing up surrounded by Kinslayers hasn’t ruined them any. “Celegorm locked Princess Lúthien away, but she escaped with the help of Celegorm’s dog, Huan, and she continued on her journey. The brother’s actions caused Thingol to also refuse to be apart of the Union of Maedhros. King Turgon also did not accept the alliance, however, he made his own plans and was thus, also drawn into the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.”

“But how does that lead to atto and atya being responsible for Morgoth’s claim of Beleriand?” Elrond demands to know, a scowl set firmly on his face, a great contrast the thoughtful frown on Elros’. Though Galion’s not particularly surprised by that, Elros has always been the more thoughtful and patient of the twins, even before the Fall of Sirion.

“It’s not so much that your adoptive fathers are to blame, only that their _House’s_ actions lead to the kingdoms of Beleriand being easy to separate and destroy until there was none to stand in Morgoth’s way. The Nirnaeth Arnoediad could have ended differently, if all of Beleriand had been united in their goal of defeating Morgoth. But the actions of the various brothers at various points since Finwë’s death meant they could not be trusted, and that, in the case of King Thingol, influential and incredibly powerful people swore they would _never_ work alongside them. One by one, the kingdoms fell until there were none left, just refugees and hateful memories.”

“And here’s Elrond, going around punching people for talking about our adoptive fathers in a less than flattering light.” Elros murmurs, with the air of realization. “Is that why everyone still mutters under their breaths about us being little Kinslayers?”

“That would be why, yes.” Galion answers, his brow furrowing unhappily. “Though, you should tell me or your ataryo when things like that happen.” He tells them, his voice stern, Elrond looks set to argue, but Elros just smiles and nods his head.

“In future, I promise.” He says, just as the door opens and Ecthelion rushes in.

“What’s this I hear about a fistfight at the market?!” he demands to know; Galion laughs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You’ve already missed the lecture, Ecthelion.” He explains, smirking at the pout on his friend’s face. “But feel free to explain to Elrond why he can’t answer _verbal_ insults, that is _not physical or mental_ assaults, with violence.”

“Oh, I can do that! Come on, little one, let’s go practice sword fighting on the beach. Elros, are you coming as well?”

“Only if you’ll tell us the real story of how you killed Gothmog!” Elros answers, but he’s already moving. Ecthelion starts sputtering in offense and Galion rolls his eyes at them and determines to track down his other set of twins, given he hasn’t heard from them all day.

* * *

_S.A 1000 – Valinor_

“I can’t believe you made your own ship!”

“Shut up!”

“No, no, don’t get me wrong. _I love it!_ And I love that you made your own ship, I just can’t _believe_ that you _made your own ship.”_ Glorfindel assures the other elf, his hands out in surrender, Thranduil frowns at him.

“Well, I’ve been living with the ship builders for… however long I’ve been returned to life, it wasn’t like I’ve just sat around all day doing nothing!”

“Fair! Anyway, is this your first time going to Valinor?” Glorfindel queries as they come into the port.

“Remember where you came out of the Halls of Mandos?”

“Oh, right. That was- right.” Glorfindel mutters, only having vague memories of those confusing few days following his return to life. He doesn’t remember his stint in the Halls of Waiting, but he knows he spent some time there. “Anyway, come on, let’s see if we can’t find our charges.”

* * *

_S.A 3 – Lindon, Ossiriand_

“Remember, I’ll be in the Greenwood if you need me.” Galion says to the five elves arrayed before him, although, he supposes now it’s four elves and one mortal. “I’d really prefer you wait at least a hundred years or so before getting into anymore life-threatening situations, but I know what you all are like, so I’ll settle for you all surviving whatever trouble you do find, alright?”

“Adar!” two voices exclaim as another set yell “Atar!”

Galion can’t help the laugh that pulls from him as he looks at their sulking faces.

“It’s just too easy to rile you! But, no, really. I’m a single summons away.” He reminds them, turning to look behind him when he hears his adoptive father calling for him, he holds his hand up in reply, signalling he’s heard but asking for some more time. “Although, I’d prefer you not wait until Ecthelion is bleeding out to ask for me.”

“It was one time!” all five voices exclaim, utterly indignant, but Galion just grins.

“But, I really should go now, before your grandfather comes to drag me along by my ear.” He says, turning to smirk at the annoyed huff Oropher sends his way. “Yes, definitely should be leaving.” He murmurs, turning back to pull each of his sons into a tight hug one at a time. “I love you.” He promises each of them, his eyes shining with it. “And I’m so proud of who you’ve all become from the little babies your parents first placed in my arms.”

“Oh no, he’s going to start crying!” Methloth exclaims, Elrond making desperate soothing motions at him, Galion laughs and sucks in a breath.

“I’m not going to start crying, I promise.” He assures them, before he turns to pull Ecthelion into a tight hug and he almost, _almost_ breaks his promise, reminded for the first time in a little while just who is missing from his life. No longer a constant, agonizing absence that sends him reeling, floundering in search of something he knows he’ll never get back. Now, the pain is manageable, the loss still insurmountable, but he knows now that he doesn’t have to try to get over it. He knows he doesn’t need to try and bridge that gaping abyss, he simply needs to acknowledge it, and find a way to go around.

“Say the word and I’ll go with you.” Ecthelion murmurs into his ear, Galion laughs and shakes his head, hastily wiping at his eyes because he is _not_ crying.

“No, no, it’s fine. You stay with the children; they’ll need you more than me.” Galion says, though he notes the doubtful look Ecthelion sends him. “Honest, I’ve got ada and Celeborn and Feren. I’ll be fine.” The doubtful look turns unimpressed, but Galion just rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I have to go. Please don’t burn down Lindon in my absence?”

“I make absolutely no promises.” Ecthelion tells him with a giant grin on his face. “But we’ll see what happens, shall we?”

* * *

_S.A 1600 – Valinor_

“Get in, losers, we’re going to Middle-earth!” Thranduil exclaims, ushering Glorfindel and the two blue Istari onto the ship that Glorfindel is only relatively certain that Thranduil has built himself, and sure enough, burnt into the wood is the symbol of Thranduil’s house, a flourishing tree with a twelve-pointed star.

“I don’t know who you’re calling a loser. I, at least, haven’t died.” Pallando comments, Thranduil just snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Are you going to get in the ship or what?” Thranduil queries, smirking when the blue wizards frown at him and then climb aboard.

“Olórin and the others are supposed to be joining us, too.” Glorfindel points out, but Thranduil is already pulling in the anchor and setting sail.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Did you say something?” Thranduil queries, looking to him with a shit-eating grin.

“You’re going to have to get over your dislike of Olórin at some point, Thranduil!”

“Make me.” Thranduil answers turning his gaze towards Middle-earth, towards home. “Besides, if he wanted to catch a ride, he should have been here on time, shouldn’t he? I warned them not to be late.”

“A wizard is never late-

“Yes, yes, Alatar, a wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to, I’ve heard.” Thranduil mocks, rolling his eyes. “I’m left to believe that your three companions didn’t mean to be on this ship, so, they aren’t.”

“Fair enough.” Alatar agrees, shrugging his shoulders. “Gives us a head start, anyway.”

* * *

_S.A 1600 – Lindon, Gulf of Lune_

The ship has barely been tied down when the blue istari are exclaiming their thanks and hurrying onto the dock and rushing away. Thranduil stares after them in confusion before turning to share a confused look with Glorfindel, the Balrogslayer simply shrugs his shoulders and makes a face that’s obvious to the effect of ‘what can you do?’. Thranduil snorts and turns to grab his things from the ship before he hears a surprised shout and turns towards it instantly, hands straying to the swords at his hip, gifts from Aulë, himself, as is the armour he’s currently wearing.

“Oh.” He exclaims softly as his eyes land on Círdan, the old elf staring at him and Glorfindel with wide, disbelieving eyes. Thranduil hesitates, trying to find a way to explain their miraculous return, but before he can even speak, he finds himself held in a crushing embrace.

“You’re back!” Círdan cries into Thranduil’s ear, Thranduil gives a little groan in response, his armour digging uncomfortably into him before Círdan hastily pulls away from him, hands tight on Thranduil’s shoulders as he appraises him. “Look at you, just as I remember you.”

“The last time you saw me, I was still a child!” Thranduil argues, Círdan laughs, reaching up to ruffle his hair, Thranduil grumbles, even as the older elf turns to complete the same routine with Glorfindel, who also makes a face at having his armour crushed to him in a hug.

“Come, come! Tell me all about your time in Aman!” Círdan eventually commands, leading them away from the ship. “Oh, everyone is going to be so excited!”

* * *

_S.A 1600 – Lindon and The Far Downs_

Glorfindel and Thranduil are in agreement that no one is to learn of their return unless it is from the pair of them specifically. Círdan is particularly unhappy with this specification, but ultimately folds to their request. The pair end up spending two days with Círdan before they’re both itching to leave, to find their loved ones, so Círdan gives them a map, provisions, and horses and sends them on their way with the advice to either head to Imladris or Eryn Galen. Given that Imladris is closer, they eventually decide to head there first.

“Was it just me or was Círdan being really odd about telling us what we’ll find in Imldris _and_ Greenwood?” Thranduil queries, glancing across to Glorfindel, who is busy braiding his hair as their horses set an unharried pace along the dirt road. Thranduil rolls his eyes at the sight, Glorfindel’s obsession with his hair knows no bounds.

“Ah, no, he was being very odd.” Glorfindel agrees, pausing to frown at Thranduil. “Also, I’m pleased to see no one has yet worked out who Gil-Galad’s father is.”

“What?” Thranduil exclaims, eyes wide. “How is he High-King if his parentage is in question?”

“Well, that’s just it, we know his father is either Finrod, Fingon, or Orodreth. There was also, at one point, a debate about whether he was the son of one of the Fëanorians, but that was debunked. Círdan knows who his true father is, but he has refused to tell the tale unless Gil-Galad expressly allows him, so…” Glorfindel shrugs his shoulders and rolls his eyes. “Either way, he’s of the royal bloodline, hence inheriting the title. Although, I’m not quite sure why they skipped Eärendil’s children since they would be King Turgon’s direct descendants.”

“Hmm, perhaps we should have asked while we were with Círdan?” Thranduil queries, before turning his gaze forward to their path. “Ah, either way, I’m sure we’ll learn what has occurred in our absence.”

* * *

_S.A 1600 – the hill that would become Weather Top, Weather Hills_

“If I was in charge of this land, I’d set a watch tower here.” Thranduil says, as he looks down upon the lands around them from atop the hill. “It’s a good vantage point and easily defendable. Also, it would serve as a rest point for a travelling army.”

“Yes, but that’s assuming that anyone rules these lands.” Glorfindel points out, fussing with the fire to cook their dinner. “Besides, you and I both know that even the best defences can be thwarted.”

“True enough.” Thranduil agrees, looking towards the East, where he knows their destination lies in almost a straight line. “What do you think this ‘Imladris’ will be like?”

“All Círdan would say was that it is a stronghold against Sauron, a place of healing, and that it’s controlled by Noldor from out of Lindon. Supposedly, Gil-Galad’s heir is in charge there, but Círdan would not say who that was.” Glorfindel answers, shrugging his shoulders. “Everyone is keeping secrets; this is so ridiculous.”

“Yet, somehow, still more helpful than anyone in Aman.”

“There is that.”

* * *

_S.A 1600 – Imladris, Eriador_

“I don’t like it.” Thranduil announces, the moment they cross the River Bruinen and enter the land designated as Imladris.

“Thranduil.”

“Can’t you feel it?” Thranduil asks, looking around himself as his skin crawls. “This land is soaked in the power of the House of Fëanor. You remember how I died, right?!” Thranduil demands of Glorfindel, his hands resting on the hilts of his swords.

“Can you not feel the power of Thingol and Melian, also?” Glorfindel queries, stepping to his side but refraining from touching him. Thranduil struggles to ignore the offending House’s power to confirm that, yes, there is a remnant of Melian and Thingol, Lúthien, Nimloth, and Dior, too. There’s also a remnant of his own father’s power thrumming alongside the others. Slowly, he feels his heart calm in his chest, as he lets the familiar powers twine around him, welcoming him and promising him safety. “Even if there are Fëanorians here, you’re safe.” Glorfindel promises him, Thranduil scoffs, and shakes his head. “They’ll have to get through me, first.”

“You think they’ll balk at the idea of that?” Thranduil asks, with a laugh. “They are Kinslayers for a reason, my dearest Glorfindel.” Thranduil answers, but he doesn’t resist when Glorfindel gently rests a hand on his wrist and pulls him along.

“And I’m a Balrogslayer.” Glorfindel answers, without concern. “Come. Let’s see if we can’t find the Lord of this place.”

* * *

Glorfindel is, honestly, all for decoration and taking pride in one’s family but this is ridiculous. Thranduil is little more than a panicked mess, getting worst and worse the further they get through Imladris and the more Fëanorian Stars they pass. At this point, not even the six-pointed Star of Eärendil or even the swirled star that is the symbol of Thingol are calming him. Neither, are the twelve-point Stars of Oropher calming his friend.

Glorfindel pulls them to a stop near a great fountain, that reminds him strangely of the King’s Fountain in Gondolin, though, that’s gone now. Thranduil’s breaths are desperate, swift, little gasping noises, his eyes glazed in indication that he’s not mentally present. This is backed up by the way his hands are clutched at his chest, at a wound that never had a chance to scar, and that has never been on the body Thranduil now possesses.

“Thranduil? Thranduil, listen, we’re fine, alright? We’re both fine. It’s just-just a symbol, alright? There’s no danger here, we’re fine. I promise.” Glorfindel says, trying to keep his voice soothing. “We can leave, alright? We’ll go to Greenwood and I’ll come back on my own to find Ecthelion.” He doesn’t even know if Thranduil can hear him. In the past, when Thranduil would have these attacks in Aman, it was always a shot in the dark as to whether Thranduil would hear him. Námo and Irmo had apologised for bringing Thranduil back too soon. As the first elf rebodied, if one discounts Lúthien, they hadn’t realized the time needed to process and recover from a traumatic event. It was why Glorfindel had remained dead for far longer than Thranduil had, and even still, Glorfindel himself still sometimes found himself back on that cliff fighting for his life.

“Thranduil?” he calls again, shaking off his own traumatic memories before they suck him in, too.

“Glorfindel?” Thranduil asks, his voice sounding so tiny and terrified.

“Yes, yes, it’s me!” Glorfindel exclaims, holding out his hand which, Thranduil grasps tightly. “Do you want to leave? We don’t have to be here. We can go.”

“No.” Thranduil answers, swallowing thickly and shaking his head. “No, we came all this way. I just-I feel like I have stepped into the lions den.”

“I’ll protect you.” Glorfindel promises again, because he’s not joking, is in fact entirely serious. Thranduil is his friend and he doesn’t know if Thranduil will ever recover enough from his own murder to face the symbols of his murderer’s household. The Valar know that Glorfindel would probably run screaming if he ever came face to face with another balrog. Really, it’s not weakness when your greatest fear has already killed you, once, and left you scrambling to put the pieces of a life you lost back together, again. “You remember what Nerdanel said?” Glorfindel asks, knowing it’s a long shot to bring her up, but they’d both liked her, when they’d gotten over their realisation that she was Fëanor’s _wife,_ and when Thranduil had gotten over the knowledge that she was Curfin’s _mother._

“They’re all dead, but Maglor.” Thranduil answers, his voice still strained. “Maglor could-“

“Maedhros was their best fighter, Maglor was their worst.” Glorfindel argues, before Thranduil can work himself up even more.

“Not for lack of skill.” Thranduil points out, resting his free hand against Glorfindel’s shoulder and visibly trying to calm himself. “Lack of _heart.”_

“No, not lack of heart.” Glorfindel disagrees, shaking his head. “ _Too much_ heart, lack of _conviction._ ”

“But Maglor could still-“

“No, I don’t think we’re going to find Maglor here. For one, I doubt Ecthelion would ever spend time within shouting distance of him, not after what we learned from the children about Sirion.” Glorfindel reasonably points out, Thranduil snorts and wipes at the tears on his face, now that’ he’s obviously realised their presence.

“Alright. Fine. I’ll-I’ll stop over-reacting.” Thranduil decides, sucking in a deep breath and straightening himself up. Glorfindel frowns at him and shakes his head.

“You’re not over-reacting. You’ve been faced with symbols that represent the House of the elf that murdered you, of the elves that murdered your king and your queen. You’re doing very well.” Glorfindel tells him, voice stern and not willing to accept any arguments, Thranduil scoffs anyway, but doesn’t comment.

“Fine. Can we stop bringing attention to my panic attack and try and find the Lord of this place before I end up on the floor sobbing like a child, again?” Thranduil asks, his own voice full of desperation. “I want to get out of this place as swiftly as possible.”

“I would welcome you here, but I doubt you’d acknowledge the sentiment.” An unfamiliar voice calls to them, Glorfindel and Thranduil both move as one, hands reaching for swords, before their eyes land on the lone elf stood before them. Glorfindel pauses, his eyes narrowing as he cocks his head to the side.

“You look like Eärendil.” He murmurs, but Thranduil snorts and shakes his head.

“He looks like Thingol.” Thranduil corrects, a frown forming on his face as he appraises the elf before them. “Which, I suppose, answers who he belongs to, doesn’t it?” he murmurs to Glorfindel before clearing his throat. “Are you Melelen or Melamdir?” he queries, Glorfindel doesn’t miss the way the elf takes a startled step backwards.

“I-I was once called Melelen, I now go by Elrond.” The elf answers, frowning at them. “I am Lord here.” He continues, his frown not lessening in the slightest. “How did you come to know those names?”

“I am Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin.” Glorfindel responds, standing tall as he lets his inner glow free, that little something extra Thranduil and Glorfindel had been brought back with, in preparation for their task here in Middle-earth. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Thranduil sigh, before Thranduil follows his lead, the pair of them glowing like little stars.

“Prince Thranduil Oropherrion of Doriath.” Thranduil answers, both of them watching as Elrond’s jaw drops open.

“But-but you’re dead!”

“Yes, we were.” Glorfindel agrees with a nod. “Given Sauron’s re-emergence, Thranduil and I were sent back to Middle-earth to aid in opposing him. The blue istari, Pallando and Alatar, came with us, though they are already off completing their own appointed tasks.”

“We are searching for Lord Ecthelion of the House of the Fountain of Gondolin, Prince Oropher of Doriath, and Lord Galion, also of Doriath.” Thranduil explains, Glorfindel doesn’t miss the recognition that lights in Elrond’s eyes.

“This is awkward.” They hear Elrond mutter, though Glorfindel is relatively certain they weren’t meant to hear that. “Uh, atar, ataryo, and grandfather are currently in Greenwood.” Elrond answers, Glorfindel’s heart does a little jolt in his chest and he looks towards Thranduil, sees the dare in Thranduil’s eyes, but Glorfindel doesn’t know if he can find the words to ask. The pair of them glaring at each other, until Glorfindel finally huffs at Thranduil in exasperation and turns back to Elrond, who is watching them in bemusement.

“Uhm, your atar, ataryo, and grandfather?” Glorfindel queries, his voice sounding far higher pitched than he wants it to.

“That’s a little bit of a story if you’d like to come inside? We could have tea and I could answer any questions you have?” Elrond asks, indicating a path off to the right. “I-I can hide the Fëanorian Stars if that would be helpful? I noticed you do not like them.” Elrond says, the last part a statement, but it sounds like a question. Thranduil laughs, though the sound has a hysteric edge to it, Glorfindel reaches out to grip his friend’s wrist tight.

“That would be helpful, thank you.” Glorfindel tells Elrond, knowing as he does that Thranduil would not ask for such, seeing it as a weakness even though it is nothing of the sort. “You seem to have an overabundance of them, here?”

“Ah, that’s part of the story.” Elrond tells them, as he turns on his heel and starts leading them away. Glorfindel drags Thranduil along, when his friend seems to find himself rooted to the ground, Thranduil doesn’t complain.

* * *

Elrond doesn’t miss the way Prince Thranduil keeps close to Lord Glorfindel, whose hand hasn’t left the prince’s wrist since they left the courtyard. Even with the Fëanorian Stars hidden the prince still looks towards them, like he can still sense their power, can still sense their presence. He wants to pretend that he doesn’t know why the prince is so put off by the symbols of his adoptive fathers’ House, but he does know why. Most who would remember Fëanor’s symbol died in the War of Wrath or generally avoid coming to Imladris, so Elrond hadn’t thought much when he’d settled the stars all over the city as protections, along with Thingol, Oropher, and Eärendil’s symbols, too.

Now, of course, he’s faced with an elf who not only recognized the symbols but has a very good reason to hate and fear them, having been killed in one of the Kinslayings. The part of him that is a sworn, dedicated, and master healer bristles at the knowledge that his own choices are now bringing harm but there is not much he can now do to mitigate that harm. Although, seeing Thranduil’s reaction goes a long way to explaining why his atar and his grandfather never visit Imladris and prefer not to visit Ost-in-Edhil, either. They’ve never outright said anything, but they’ve always suddenly been too busy to have time to visit him.

That explains a lot, also why ataryo had followed him around for a day asking if he was ‘really, really, really, _really_ sure he wanted to use the Fëanorian Stars.’ Though, there hadn’t been any judgment when Elrond had confirmed that yes, he did.

“Lindir?” he calls as he passes them. “Can you please organize for tea to be bought to the Hall of Fire for three?”

“Of course, my Lord.” Lindir agrees, bowing his head as he moves off. Elrond thanks him and continues on their way. The Hall of Fire, thankfully, has no adornment from any of Elrond’s houses.

“The Hall of Fire?” Glorfindel queries, his voice tight, Elrond pauses as he remembers exactly how this elf died. His ataryo always avoided the Hall of Fire like a plague unless he had no choice, Elrond can’t believe he hadn’t even thought of that when faced with another Balrogslayer.

“Oh.” He hesitates, considers other places they could go to talk, but all of the courtyards have Fëanor’s star. They could go to his study, of course, but his gifts from Maedhros and Maglor are kept there and given how sensitive Thranduil is to the stars, he has no doubt the prince will also sense the gifts.

“We can face this together, right?” Thranduil murmurs to Glorfindel, Elrond’s sure he’s not supposed to hear it. “You defend me from the stars, and I’ll defend you from the fire.” Thranduil says, his voice thick with amusement, but Elrond hears the promise and concern buried beneath it. “It’ll be like when we visited Aulë’s forge.” The prince coaxes, eventually Glorfindel gives a stiff nod, his grip on Thranduil’s wrist dropping to capture the elf’s hand, Elrond looks away.

“I suppose as long as the fire doesn’t grow a body of flame and shadow, we’ll be alright.“ Glorfindel answers, sighing. “Please, lead on, Lord Elrond.” He requests, Elrond sends him an apologetic smile and leads them onwards. He hesitates at the door of the Hall of Fire but eventually pushes the doors open and leads the way inside. Glorfindel recoils immediately at the heat from the room, but Thranduil’s grip on his wrist is strong and true and it keeps the Balrogslayer from fleeing.

“Ataryo hates this room, too.” Elrond admits, glancing back at them. “He said it’s not so bad once he’s inside and distracted, but actually stepping inside is the hard part.”

“Well, if Ecthelion can do it.” Glorfindel says, holding his head high, sucking in a breath and then stepping over the boundary line, Thranduil rolls his eyes but follows after him. Neither of them comment at how tense Glorfindel holds himself the moment he sees the fire.

Elrond leads them over to a table and a set of chairs towards the corner, as far from the fire as possible. It’s the table his ataryo prefers to sit at whenever he’s in here, so Elrond figures it would be Glorfindel’s preferred seat, also.

They’ve barely sat down when Lindir appears with a tray complete with tea pot, teacups, and the little pastries from the kitchen that Elrond’s sure he could eat forever. Elrond’s sure his eyes have lit up at the sight of them, given the amused smile Lindir shoots him as he sets the tray down, bows his head to them and leaves them to their own devices.

“So, where would you like me to begin?” Elrond queries, as he swiftly pours out tea for the three of them, Glorfindel eying the pastries with undisguised interest, while Thranduil is busy assessing the décor of the room.

“Your parents told us about everything from the Falls of Menegroth and Gondolin to the fall of Sirion, and your survival. After that, they said it wasn’t their story to tell.” Thranduil answers, turning to glare at Glorfindel and shove a pastry into his hands. “Would you stop looking at it like it’s something you’ve never seen before? Nienna is going to be upset, by the way.”

“What?!” Glorfindel exclaims around a mouthful of the pasty. “Why? And isn’t she always upset?”

“You’re cheating on her pastries.” Thranduil replies, smirking at the stricken look that forms on Glorfindel’s face. Elrond glances back and forward between them a soft smile forming on his face even as he considers Thranduil’s earlier words.

“My parents?”

“Eärendil and Elwing.” Thranduil answers, stirring his tea absently, an odd look on his face as he stared into the drink, obviously not a tea drinker.

“Do you know why they didn’t come back for my brother and I?” Elrond queries, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. It is something he and Elros had asked themselves frequently, even after they’d been adopted by Galion and Ecthelion.

“Your mother thought you were dead.” Thranduil says, glancing at him with something considering in his gaze. “She didn’t learn until she and Eärendil were placed among the stars that she was wrong.”

“So, she- _they_ didn’t mean to abandon us?”

“Never.” Glorfindel answers, his voice brooking no argument. “They weren’t able to tell us much of you or your brother, but they loved you, were so proud of you, it was so easy to see in what little they did say of you.”

“Oh.” Elrond exclaims, trembling hands setting his cup back down on its saucer before he can spill the tea or shatter the cup. He sucks in a deep breath and finds his centre, deciding to move this forward before he can feel guilty for assuming his parents had simply decided he and his brother were too much work. “When Sirion fell, my brother and I had been playing in one of the waterfalls. Maedhros and Maglor found us there. We refused to tell them our names, so they named us Elrond and Elros, instead.”

“Creative.” Thranduil mutters, his voice hard, his jaw clenched tight, Glorfindel sighs and nudges Thranduil’s shoulder with his own and slowly the prince relaxes. “Apologies.”

“No, it-it’s fine.” Elrond says, shaking his head, he’s heard far worse things about his first set of adoptive fathers than scathing commentary about their skills with naming things. “We were held captive by them for a time, intended to be ransomed back to our parents but-“

“But they never came back.” Glorfindel says when Elrond trails off, he nods.

“Yes. Elros and I were nine at the time, and we assumed that eventually Maedhros and Maglor would figure out that our parents weren’t coming back, and they’d kill us anyway. We… well, I’m still not quite sure how we managed it, but we ran away. They found us fairly swiftly, of course, but it was still an accomplishment.” Elrond says, reaching for his cup to take a sip. “They were quite upset when they learned why we’d run away.”

“I’m sure they were.” Thranduil mutters, getting another nudge, the prince glares at the Balrogslayer. “I never promised to be civil as far as the Fëanorians are concerned.” The prince hisses, his eyes glowing with the same unearthly light the pair had shone with before. “Perhaps they had hearts, shrivelled and decayed within their chests, I wouldn’t know. Doesn’t change the fact that they’re vicious, and unrepentant murderers.”

“They did regret it in the end.” Elrond argues, but Thranduil scoffs at him.

“Please, they knew exactly what they were getting themselves into when they raised their weapons against our kin in Aman with the intent to kill. And if they didn’t realize then what they were doing, they’re fools. They had regrets in the end, yes, but I highly doubt those regrets extended any further than feeling sorry for themselves. They threw away _everything,_ brought death and despair everywhere they went and what did they get out of it in the end? _Nothing.”_ Thranduil tells him, his voice filled with so much passion. Elrond remembers suddenly what his atar used to say about Prince Thranduil, about how when he spoke, people stopped to listen, always. “No, my dear Lord Elrond, you do not repent, do not clean the blood off your hands by bathing in more blood.”

Elrond’s heard similar before, that his adoptive fathers didn’t regret killing people, they regretted what they’d lost as a result of killing people. Elrond had never believed it, wasn’t sure if he believed it even now, but Thranduil isn’t wrong. You don’t make up for murder with more murder.

“Perhaps we can let Elrond continue his story without interrupting him every five minutes?” Glorfindel queries, Thranduil huffs and rolls his eyes but indicates for Elrond to continue, so he sucks in a breath and does. The words are suddenly so much harder for him to speak than they ever have been.

* * *

“I don’t like it.” Thranduil says to Glorfindel, when they’re sitting up high in the cliffs, looking up at the stars above them, or down at Rivendell below them.

“Which part? That Elrond was adopted by Maglor and Maedhros? Or that he was adopted by Galion and Ecthelion?” Glorfindel asks, quietly weaving flax together in what Thranduil assumes will become a purse.

“You know which part.” Thranduil answers, scowling at Glorfindel before reaching out to start playing with the flax himself. “Assholes didn’t think anything of leaving Elurín and Eluréd to die, but suddenly they’re too good for that? No, they probably knew things weren’t going to end well for them and thought adopting their enemy’s children instead of killing them would grant them some sympathy points.”

“Sometimes, you make me really regret being rebodied.” Glorfindel tells him, a pout on his face, Thranduil glares. “I’m serious. Were you always this jaded?”

“No.” Thranduil answers, quietly starting to weave what will become a flower with flax. “Look, I like Elrond, I just don’t like two of his six parents.”

“Well, four out of six isn’t bad.” Glorfindel comments, Thranduil snorts and shakes his head.

“Do you think I can get myself pardoned if I stalk Mandos’ halls and stab Curufin in his stupid face the moment he gets rebodied?”

“I’m going to have to say no, on this one.” Glorfindel says, Thranduil slumps, a pout forming on his lips.

“Why? He’s an arsehole and he stole nearly two thousand years from me.”

“Nice motive, still murder.”

“Hmm. I didn’t say I’d get acquitted. I said ‘pardoned’, you know that means I’m guilty, and I admit my guilt, but punishment is waived?”

“Good argument, still no.”

“Hmph.”

* * *

“I don’t really want to go back in there.” Thranduil admits, fidgeting only a little as he lets Glorfindel fuss with his hair. Glorfindel always had loved to put his hair into elaborate styles, Thranduil hadn’t really bothered with such since his own death. But now it’s become a soothing experience for the both of them.

“You could stay here.” Glorfindel comments, without judgement but Thranduil feels judged, anyway.

“No.” he argues, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the smouldering remains of their campfire. “You’re supposed to face your fears, right?”

“Normally, those fears haven’t actually killed you before.” Glorfindel points out, Thranduil snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Right.”

* * *

Elrond is waiting for them at the bottom of the path, Thranduil wants to ask how long he’s been standing there waiting, but he has enough presence of mind not to mention it. Greeting the elf with a pleasant smile and a raised eyebrow when he doesn’t feel the pulsing of the power of Fëanor’s house.

“This is a place of refuge as much as a fortress.” Elrond admits, as he leads them back towards the main buildings. “It defeats the purpose if you feel more afraid here than outside the boundary lines. I am the Head of House; I control the power.”

“I see.” Thranduil answers, a small smile forming on his lips. “Thank you.”

“It’s no hassle. We’ll be meeting in my study today; I’ve had time to move any potentially offensive items elsewhere.”

“Oh.” Thranduil exclaims, sharing a glance with Glorfindel, who simply shrugs in answer. “Uh, you didn’t have to do that.”

“As I said yesterday, I want you to be welcome here.” Elrond explains, smiling back at them, as he leads them into the House of Elrond. “Aran Gil-Galad actually intended for this refuge to be built later in this century, but given Celebrimbor’s unease about Annatar, we decided it was better to create this place sooner. Given Annatar has turned out to be Sauron, that decision was wise.”

“It would have been wiser for the Host to have prevented Sauron escaping the War of Wrath, but… we cannot turn back time.” Glorfindel answers, as they’re lead into what must be Elrond’s study.

Thranduil considers the room with its various bookshelves stacked high with books, the desk that’s all but buried in maps and other parchments, the comfortable chair set behind the desk, and pair opposite. It’s surprisingly homely, and Thranduil can already feel himself relaxing, in a way he hasn’t relaxed since they passed Imladris’ border.

“So, you’re wanting to get to the Greenwood.” Elrond says, as they all sit down around the desk, Thranduil watches Elrond moving the parchments on the table until there’s a map of Middle-earth as it now is resting on the table, the sketched evidence that Beleriand is now no longer settles like a lead weight in his stomach.

All of his ‘Middle-earthly’ possessions were lost to him with his death, he never really expected to have any of them back, so while he’s sad they’re truly gone for good, he can accept that, and long ago did. He struggles, though, to accept that Lúthien and Beren’s glade exists only in his memories. That the Moonlit Glade where he, Lúthien, Nimloth, and Galion first cemented their friendship is nothing more than memory. That the woods he so loved are gone, lost to the sea forevermore.

He looks at Glorfindel, notes how his friend is frowning at the Blue Mountains like they’ve personally offended him, and he has to hide a relieved smile. He’s not the only one mourning the loss of something that was stolen from them so, so long ago. Absently, he remembers that Elrond had spoken and raises his eyes to find Elrond giving them both soft, understanding smiles. Thranduil recalls that Elrond, at least, was old enough to have been born in Beleriand. He too has lost the land of his childhood. Thranduil sighs and clears his throat before he can let his thoughts carry him any further into sadness.

“Círdan said we would find Ecthelion, Galion, or my father in either Imladris or Eryn Galen. Beyond that, he was very secretive.” Thranduil admits, with a roll of his eyes.

“Ah, personally, I think Círdan is just getting bored in his old age.” Elrond says, with amusement shining in his eyes. “But he’s not wrong. Ataryo spends his time either here or in Greenwood, with atar. Atar lives in the Greenwood with daeradar.” Elrond explains, then he pauses, his gaze flicking to Thranduil, a sly smile forming. “I take it Círdan didn’t mention that your father has been crowned Aran o’ Eryn Galen?” Thranduil chokes on his spit and struggles to draw air into his lungs, Glorfindel patting him on the back while Elrond laughs.

“What?” Thranduil finally exclaims, his eyes wide. “Ada _never_ wanted to be king. He only agreed to be ‘Prince of Doriath’ because Uncle Thingol apparently _whined_ about not having any heirs until Lúthien was born!”

“Well, he changed his mind.” Elrond answers, shrugging his shoulders. “He rules in the Greenwood, atar chose not to be counted as his heir, despite officially being adopted and-“

“Wait, wait, ada _finally_ adopted Galion and I wasn’t here for it?” Thranduil demands, not sure if he’s annoyed or vindicated. _He_ adopted Galion within about five minutes of meeting the other elf, but his father had stubbornly refused, despite acting as the father figure in Galion’s life ever since their friendship had begun.

“Yes, after… your loss, Uncle Celeborn told daeradar to adopt atar or he’d do it, instead.” Elrond says, grinning, Thranduil snorts and rolls his eyes. “Anyway, daeradar rules Greenwood, atar chose not to be counted a Prince of the Realm, but my elder siblings, who are… also my uncles, Methloth and Methestel, are daeradar’s heirs. They don’t actually want to inherit, though, but daeradar is really good at guilt trips.”

“Understatement.” Thranduil mutters, grinning when Elrond laughs. “Methloth and Methestel are Elurín and Eluréd, yes?”

“Yes, though they don’t tend to go by those names anymore.”

“I don’t particularly care what names they wish to call themselves, so long as they survived.” Thranduil answers, remembering with crystal clarity the words Celegorm had taunted Nimloth and Dior with. “How did they escape?”

“They said the forest lead them to atar.” Elrond replies with a shrug of his shoulders. “None of them like talking about it, so that’s all I know.”

“Understandable.” Glorfindel says, finally pulling his gaze away from the map. “Your father didn’t like talking about Gondolin’s Fall, either. And your mother’s stories of Menegroth’s Fall were all second hand, as she didn’t remember too much of what had occurred, herself.”

“I’m not surprised. She was only three, right? At least, that’s what I’ve heard?”

“Yes, she was three, the boys were six.” Thranduil answers, before he shakes his head. “Let’s not talk about that. So, Galion, my father, and Ecthelion will be in Greenwood? What about Lord Celeborn?” he asks instead, raising an eyebrow when Elrond points to Lothlórien.

“Aran Amdír rules here with his son, Amroth. Lord Celeborn, Lady Galadriel, and their daughter, Celebrían dwell there-.”

“Oh, Valar, they finally procreated.” Thranduil murmurs, sharing a horrified look with Glorfindel, before the pair of them burst into laughter.

“Took them long enough.” Glorfindel mutters, Thranduil snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Bit hard to have children when one part of the pair is over an ‘uncrossable’ mountain range…”

“Fair point.” Glorfindel says, his eyes shining with his amusement. “Is there anything else we should know?”

“Well, I’m sure you’re aware of Númenor, but there’s also the dwarves in Moria and-“

* * *

“So,” Elrond exclaims, after explaining the current state of affairs for the world for the last little while. “back to Greenwood.” He says, Thranduil snorts and inclines his head, indicating for Elrond to go on. “The safest route to Greenwood at the moment is to go via Ost-in-Edhil, on to Moria, through Lothlórien, then straight on to Eryn Galen-“

“Right, so for people who don’t particularly want to be murdered at the first stop on the trip. What other paths are there?” Thranduil queries, raising an eyebrow at him, Elrond frowns in confusion.

“Why would you-? There’s no danger at Ost-in-Edhil.”

“Galion never explained to you how I died, did he?” Thranduil queries, Elrond notes that beside him, Glorfindel is cringing and indicating for Elrond to stop talking, Elrond blinks at him in confusion, then glances back at Thranduil.

“No. Only that you died in the Kinslaying with my grandparents.”

“Dior and Celegorm Fëanorion slew each other. Nimloth and Caranthir Fëanorion slew each other. Curufin Fëanorion and _I_ slew each other.” Thranduil answers, his face carefully blank of all emotion, his voice equally steady, unwavering. “Somehow, I doubt Celebrimbor will be pleased to see me, given that his father is still very much dead and going to stay that way for the foreseeable future.”

“I-I’m so- I didn’t-“ Elrond can’t seem to put his thoughts or his words into any semblance of order. He knows already that his first adoptive family is or was universally hated by his birth family and, by extension, his second adoptive family. He just hadn’t quite understood the extent as to why. “Right. Alright. Ost-in-Edhil is out. Moria, too, given their love of my cousin. Uh, that leaves the Redhorn Pass or the High Pass.” He says, pointing out each on the map. “They’re not as safe and they add additional time to your journey, but-” he hesitates, an awkward little laugh escaping him as he realizes how much of his own family history he doesn’t know. “-well, they’re safer than risking Celebrimbor’s wrath.”

“Excellent.” Thranduil comments, digging through his coin pouch and holding up a coin. “Glorfindel, swords we go the High Pass, shields we go the Redhorn pass. I think it’ll be shields.”

“Guess that means I’m stuck with swords, then.” Glorfindel answers with a small sigh and a pout on his face. “Go on then, toss it.” Elrond watches, bemused, as Thranduil flips the coin in the air, Thranduil catches the coin in his palm, he slaps the coin down onto the back of his other hand, then reveals which side the coin has landed on.

“Ah, shields.” Thranduil states, smirking at Glorfindel. “Guess we’re going via the Redhorn Pass, then.”

“I let you win.” Glorfindel argues, Thranduil laughs.

“It’s a game of chance!” Thranduil argues, his voice full of laughter and none of the carefully masked terror and apprehension that Elrond had heard in it all throughout yesterday. “You can’t let someone win a game of chance.”

“Oh, then how do you always end up winning when you pick shields?”

Elrond watches them in stupefaction as they devolve into an argument over the probabilities related to flipping coins. He’d heard from both of his fathers the personalities his fallen uncles had possessed, but he doesn’t think anyone expected them to get on quite this well…

* * *

“Elrond, dearest, sweetest, beloved nephew?“ Thranduil calls, voice breezy even as his eyebrows are raised to heights only Elwing and Eärendil could possibly hope to describe. “Why not simply send us off with your entire kitchen and the staff? Then perhaps we may have a chance of carrying everything.” He says, watching the bright blush that forms on Elrond’s face, he can well believe Galion had a hand in raising this elf, they certainly fuss the same.

“No one would ever forgive me if anything happened to you both because I didn’t give you enough supplies…” Elrond tells them, his voice a mumbled thing, Glorfindel laughs, still utterly charmed as he has been since the moment he found out this was Eärendil’s _and_ Ecthelion’s _son._ Thranduil, on the other hand, had taken a little longer to warm up to the elf, but Elrond possessed Beren’s ridiculous charm which had even worked on _Thingol_. At this point, Thranduil’s relatively certain the entire bloodline is going to inherit it, so he’s resigned to having no choice in the matter.

“I’m certain Thranduil and I can make do with whatever provisions we can carry, penneth.” Glorfindel says, a fond smile on his face. “Remember, you should only pack the essentials when travelling, especially if the roads are dangerous.” Thranduil hears the rehearsed tone to the words and casts a glance at his friend, wondering how many times he repeated that phrase to Eärendil before Gondolin’s Fall.

“You could come with us, you know?” Thranduil tempts Elrond with a mischievous smile. “Ensure we make it to Greenwood in one piece, and all of that.” The elf is tempted, Thranduil can tell by the light in their eyes, but eventually, Elrond sighs and shakes his head.

“I would love to join you, but I have duties here that I cannot abandon at such short notice.”

“Fair enough.”

* * *

_S.A 1601 – The Wilds of Hollin, Eregion._

“Why did we pick the path that takes us near the dwarves, again?” Glorfindel queries, as he watches Thranduil preparing their dinner. “I thought we were avoiding them?”

“Elrond says the Redhorn Pass takes us down to the Dimrill Dale, which is technically part of Moria, but the pass has existed long before the kingdom has. The dwarves apparently don’t care if travellers pass through there, so long as they’re respectful and don’t mean any harm.” Thranduil answers, looking up at him with a pleasant smile. “Besides, taking the Redhorn Pass means we’ll be closer to Lothlórien, so we can stop in there for curiosity’s sake.”

“You really want to meet Lady Galadriel’s daughter, don’t you?”

“I’m just really curious to see what a child from their pair looks like.” Thranduil answers, his smile turning into a smirk. “There were bets on this in Menegroth.”

“Of course, there were.” Glorfindel mutters, rolling his eyes and sighing heavily. “There were bets like that in Gondolin, too.”

“I remember, actually.” Thranduil answers, laughing. “That one visit we had where everyone kept asking us our opinion when they learned where we were from. Not that we were supposed to be in Gondolin at all.”

“I… vaguely recall something about the Crown Princess and the Prince of Doriath visiting.” Glorfindel admits, he hadn’t paid too much attention to that at the time, too busy off doing his own thing. But he remembers Turgon bringing it up at Court, apparently the visiting royals had made an impression. Glorfindel hadn’t been surprised by that, either. Thingol’s entire Household was very impressive and always had been. “What were you in Gondolin for?”

“We snuck out of the Girdle.” Thranduil answers, a nostalgic smile on his face. “Nimloth was bored and Lúthien bet we would be too scared to cross the boundary line. Well, at the time, I hadn’t met a fear I wasn’t prepared to face, so…” Thranduil shrugs his shoulders, Glorfindel snorts.

“Right, so you practically threw yourself through the Girdle.”

“Nimloth and I held hands as we ran across it.” Thranduil answers, his eyes shining with what Glorfindel knows to be pain and loss and bittersweet nostalgia. “Galion chased after us screaming about how much trouble we were going to get in, and Lúthien fell across it in an almost drunken stumble, she was laughing so hard.”

“And you decided to go to Gondolin?

“Well,” Thranduil pauses, shooting him a teasing smile. “we had already crossed the Girdle, you see? No point going back already, when we hadn’t even done anything worthy of the punishment we knew we were going to face. So, off we headed to Gondolin.”

“And the rest is history?”

“Just so.”

* * *

_S.A 1601 – West Side of Caradhras, Eriador_

“You know what I didn’t miss in Aman?” Thranduil queries, as he kicks at the snow beneath his feet, walking on it is of no concern to him, but it doesn’t mean he’s not feeling the cold.

“I still maintain that the cold is still far better than the heat.” Glorfindel answers, Thranduil’s inclined to believe him, given the elf died fighting a creature of flame and smoke. “We’re far more resilient to the cold, in any case.”

“Still, I could do without it.” Thranduil mutters, glaring up at Caradhras' peak. “Bastard of a mountain, that’s what this is.”

“Perhaps it is best not to insult the mountain while we are attempting to climb it?” Glorfindel points out, as the ground shakes ominously beneath them. Thranduil huffs and glares at the mountains once again, but ultimately acknowledges the merits of Glorfindel’s point.

“I’m not the one digging into your depths.” Thranduil points out to the mountain, ignoring the incredulous look Glorfindel throws over his shoulder at him. “If a bunch of dwarves started hacking at my nether regions, I’d be upset, too.” He grins as the sound of Glorfindel’s laughter echoes around them.

* * *

_S.A 1601 – Dimrill Dale, Rhovanion_

“Oh, yes, those are dwarves alright.” Thranduil mutters as he and Glorfindel start down the stairs into the Dimrill Dale where there are dwarves scurrying to-and-fro.

“Be nice, Thranduil.” Glorfindel scolds, frowning at his friend. “You said the dwarves don’t mind travellers if they’re respectful.”

“Fine.” Thranduil grumbles, but Glorfindel can already see that his friend has no intention of causing them any further trouble.

Some of the dwarves stop to consider them as they pass, but ultimately, they’re left alone as they pass down the stairwell and towards the Silverlode. The Golden Wood laid out before them steals Glorfindel’s breath and he glances to his side to find Thranduil staring at the golden trees with a hungry look on his face. It’s then that Glorfindel recalls that his friend is a Wood Elf at heart.

* * *

_S.A 1601 – Edge of the Golden Wood, Lothlórien_

Glorfindel watches in silent stupefaction as the trees nearest to them seem to be _vibrating,_ their branches shifting, the rustling of their golden leaves a strange music to Glorfindel’s ears. When he looks at Thranduil, his friend has the brightest smile on his face, Glorfindel doesn’t think he’s ever seen its like before.

“Thranduil?”

“They’re saying hello.” Thranduil answers, sounding both awed, excited, and relieved all in one. “The trees in Doriath used to do this, too.” He explains, his eyes shining with what Glorfindel thinks might actually be _tears. “_ At least, they did before Lúthien’s first death, afterwards, they were more subdued.”

“Ah.”

* * *

“There are-“ Thranduil pauses, his brow furrowed in concentration. “-people coming.” He finally says, glancing at Glorfindel in confusion. Glorfindel stares back at him with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

“It’s not as if the trees are still showing their excitement at your return.” Glorfindel comments, Thranduil looks around them and snorts when he sees that the trees are, indeed, still happily swaying about and chattering about his return. Well, not him, exactly, but rather the return of ‘the Beloved’, and how the trees here in Lothlórien know the name the trees back in Doriath had given him, he’ll never know. “Are they friendly at least?”

“Given the forest isn’t trying to warn me away?” Thranduil asks, raising an eyebrow. “I know you aren’t ‘one with nature’ and all of that, but really, Glorfindel, do you have to ask?”

“I _am_ one with nature.” Glorfindel argues, scowling at him and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m so one with nature that I became a literal part of it.”

“Are you-are you referring to the fact you were buried?” Thranduil asks, dumbfounded. “Because, if that’s the case, I’m also one with nature… and if Galion buried me the way Thingol was buried, I am far more literally one with nature than you.”

“What?”

“The tree roots drag the body beneath the earth, and, over time, it decomposes and becomes sustenance for the trees and plants, the worms, and other creatures that dwell within the earth.” Thranduil explains, grinning at the faintly green twinge that forms on Glorfindel’s cheeks. He laughs, the sound delighted, even as he feels a little queasy himself. “Beren taught us this song, do you want to hear it?”

“No!” Glorfindel croaks out, clearing his throat and shaking his head. “Nope, not if it’s anything like the song Tuor once told us. No thank you.”

“Well, how can we know if the songs are alike if we don’t compare them?” Thranduil asks, a vicious grin on his face as Glorfindel starts groaning and making unhappy faces.

“Why did you ask if I wanted to hear the song if you’re just going to force me to listen to the song?” Glorfindel finally exclaims, voice high pitched, Thranduil laughs, one hand pressed to his chest.

“Because it’s always good to let people think they have some choice in things, even when they don’t.” he answers, before clearing his throat and standing up taller. “ _Don’t ever laugh as a Hearse goes by-“_

“Oh, it is. It is the same song. The exact same song.” Glorfindel exclaims, waving at Thranduil to stop talking but Thranduil stubbornly continues on until Glorfindel says, “What’s a Hearse anyway?” Thranduil stops, his jaw slamming shut as he blinks at Glorfindel in stupefaction.

“I don’t know.” He finally answers, shrugging his shoulders. “I assume it’s some human thing. I don’t know what sauerkraut is either…”

“Didn’t you ever ask Beren?” Glorfindel queries, Thranduil rolls his eyes.

“Well, didn’t you ever ask Tuor?” Glorfindel considers his rebuttal and huffs looking away. “So, you don’t want me to continue the song?”

“No!” Glorfindel yells, emphatically shaking his head. “No, thank you, I don’t want to think about what happened to our bodies after we were buried. Thank you, but no.”

“Your loss.”

“Quite literally.” Glorfindel mutters, Thranduil laughs before he turns his head at the sounds of voices, the rustling of the leaves around them shifting and changing.

“We’re no longer alone.” Thranduil says, unnecessarily as the pair of them stop, standing side by side as they look towards where the voices are coming from.

All too suddenly, there’s a shout above them, a shocked cry, followed by the snapping of wood. Thranduil remembers hearing similar whenever someone would slip up in the branches back home in Doriath. An uneven footing, a slippery branch, an unexpected animal friend, some other surprise that was in no way expected. He’s moving before he even recognizes it, pinpointing the sounds of snapping and rustling, he steps forward just in time to catch a familiar elf as the trees surrender their grasp of them to gravity.

He stumbles, but doesn’t collapse under the weight, given Glorfindel’s arms holding him up under his arms. All three of them grunt at the various impacts before he’s looking down upon a familiar face, his heart swelling in his chest and joy threatening to burst out of his face.

“Hello, uncle!” he exclaims, settling Lord Celeborn down onto his feet. “Nice of you to drop in.” he teases before yelping in surprise as he finds himself crushed against a solid chest, frantic, barely coherent words rambled into his ear in a voice he hadn’t thought to hear again.

Suddenly, it hits him. He’s not alone anymore. In Aman, there’d been Uncle Olwë and his cousins, occasionally his Aunt Melian had been around, but she had spent most of her time with Thingol and Thranduil hadn’t been allowed back into the Halls of Waiting after he’d left them. None of his ‘pillars’ had been there, the foundations of his life in Doriath were all either dead or still in Middle-earth and he was alone. He did not even have Galion to lean on because his friend was either dead or still in Middle-earth, too.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying, until he’s gasping for breath, his hands scrambling against his uncle’s tunic as he tries to clutch to him tighter. Glorfindel’s voice sounding worriedly in his ears alongside his uncle’s, but that just makes him cry harder. Glorfindel had been his one single constant in Aman, the one that thing that kept him from building a ship and trying to find his way to Middle-earth on his own, uncaring if he drowned in the process. Now, here they were, in Middle-earth, he was really here, really going to see his father again, to see his heart’s brother. He was already back with his Uncle Celeborn, in Middle-earth, where he belonged.

\--

Celeborn cannot believe his eyes. He can still remember that day so long ago now, Galion arriving at Sirion with two little shadows and Thranduil nowhere to be seen, but his swords, and Dior and Nimloth’s, attached to Galion’s person. There hadn’t really been a need to ask what had happened, not with Galion standing before them looking barely alive, for all that he was unharmed. The swords that weren’t his, that had belonged to his friends, his family that had been all of them that he could take with him, aside from the boys.

There hadn’t been a day that passed since where Celeborn didn’t think about his lost cousin, who had been far more beloved nephew to him than anything else. Of all of them, Thranduil was the one they expected to survive. Dior was King, Nimloth was his wife, Celeborn had been preparing to lose them the moment they came to the throne. Thranduil, though? Thranduil had always found a way to wiggle out of trouble, the luckiest unlucky bastard in Doriath, and everyone had known it. But that luck had finally run out.

Yet, here is Thranduil, his lost nephew, encased in his arms, safe, warm, and _alive,_ exactly where he belongs. Celeborn cannot believe it.

\--

Thranduil is oddly silent and compliant as they walk beneath the trees back towards the main dwelling in Lothlórien. Glorfindel had stuttered out his introduction to the unknown elves, most of his focus still held by Thranduil, where his friend had yet to let go of Lord Celeborn even for a second. Glorfindel had known Thranduil hadn’t been taking things well in Aman. Glorfindel had missed Ecthelion and he missed Eärendil and Turgon and all the others, but he’d had Tuor and he’d had Idril and all those other Noldor who had been in Aman when he’d left for Middle-earth the first time, and all those who had come back to Aman since. It hadn’t been the same and Glorfindel hadn’t understood just how little Thranduil had been coping.

“So, Lord Glorfindel, what brings the pair of you back to these shores?” Lord Celeborn asks, and slowly Glorfindel pulls his attention from Thranduil to focus on the Sindar Lord.

“We have been assigned tasks by the Valar.” Glorfindel answers, wondering for the first time where the Blue Wizards are, and what specifically they’ve been tasked with. “None of us knows the others’ tasks, only that we are to oppose Sauron.”

“Only the two of you?” Lord Celeborn asks, his face pulled into a concerned frown, Glorfindel smiles and shakes his head.

“There are two of us and five istari, though only two istari arrived with us, they have already left to their assignment.” Glorfindel explains, glancing again to Thranduil and wondering what task has been laid at his friend’s feet and why Thranduil had looked oddly resigned when he’d been tasked with it. Oh, his friend had been overly excited to be returning to Middle-earth, but there had been something accepting about it, too, like it was a duty he had been given and he’d taken it up even though he hadn’t particularly cared to.

The Valar’s own tasks for Glorfindel had been vague and unspecific, he was told to defend the Half-elven, which he assumes means Elrond, and beyond that he was told that he would know his future tasks when the times were right. He knows the other races complain about not being able to get a straight answer from an elf, but even he’s annoyed with how useless the information from the Valar is. He doubts Thranduil’s own instructions were any more helpful.

“Are you free to speak of your task?” Lord Celeborn asks, as he guides them through the trees, Thranduil snorts and it’s the first sign of emotion from his friend that isn’t crying since the pair reunited.

“We are not even permitted to tell each other our tasks.” Thranduil answers, turning to share a conspiratorial smirk with Glorfindel. “Not until the ‘time is right’. Whatever that may mean.”

“Useful.” Lord Celeborn comments, to the sound of Thranduil’s laughter. Glorfindel realizes quite suddenly that Thranduil came by his scepticism of the Valar honestly.

\--

_S.A 1601 – The talan of Celeborn and Galadriel, Caras Galadhon_

“No.” Thranduil says sternly when his uncle talks of meeting with Amdír, Thranduil knows it’s the right thing to do, he’s in Amdír’s territory and he should receive the King’s blessing to stay, but he and Glorfindel did not even meet with Gil-Galad in Lindon. “The first King I meet in this new life will be my father, as is proper.”

“Thranduil-“

“ _No_.” Thranduil shakes his head, his eyes narrowed at his uncle. “He should have been the first one we met with, but it was not practical, given the distance we needed to travel. Meeting with you was more convenience and curiosity than anything else, uncle. My father will learn of my return from me and no one else.”

“Alright, I’ll speak with the King.” Celeborn finally relents, though he doesn’t look happy about it. “In the meantime, you should make yourselves comfortable and rest, we can have a celebration later – just our little family.” Celeborn corrects automatically when he sees Thranduil opening his mouth to argue, Thranduil sighs and gracefully gives in.


End file.
